Oh, sonnets. How I love thee.

So I decided to write a few sonnets for this blog post. Please, hold your applause until the end. No they're actually all really bad. I just remembered we talked briefly this week on sonnets, so I figured, "Hey, why not?"
Love is the story of two young teens,
entwined in fate, whose passion is but sound
and fury to all those that read between
the lines but fail to find the common ground.
Love is the story of love's ghost, once strong
in pow'r and wit, which now, time's fool, grows old,
yet still glows in closing days, along
with need of care, and lives in tales once told.
Love is man's greatest gift and prickl'st bur;
An irony which takes the lives of some
yet leaves them teaching that when love occurs,
'tis best to love, despite what they've become.
Love is the anger, passion, fury, bliss.
And yet, most often love just simply is.

The secret paints everything in colors
that only we can see. Such colors that
we, only we, can marvel at. It wuthers,
in time, fades, till it flourishes right back.
In some alternate place your gone, dead. I
still shudder at the thought. So selfish, you
still are and were, with no reason to die
and yet the will to. Life's empty without you.
Yet God, or fate, or luck, or all, has brought
you to a second life, you lost the first,
and now, embark to find what you first thought
a curse, as just such gift. To live and thirst
for more. So live, and do, and love, and hope,
and leave those fears out on that brittle rope.

He laughs. He knows all that he's done
is to his master's very whim.
He laughs despite the taste of blood
and gentle lick of nearby flame.
In fact what better way to go
than with all he ever had
in flames, engulfing him as he
had once engulfed it in all his
bitter scorning and empty lies.
It is poetic, so he thinks.
But that is neither here no there.
What lies beyond the very scene
of this scorned man engulfed in the
flames of a world which he once loved
and so he scorched on the dark whim
of an interloping promiser,
is that which he, the man I've said,
has come to represent within
the world which he so lusts in ruins.
The man has come to be the real
messenger of a new order
of men who would see chaos reign
in placement of all they never had
and all they felt that they deserved,
and simply laugh as they and the
world which they so loved duly burn,
because even they, too late to change,
can see the irony in
the burning of just such possessions.
This man is not the end of such
a selfish kind. He is merely,
with fear I say, the beginning.

So that's all I have for this week.
P.s. - I'm still vividly angry about my summer reading grade because I actually took time to read all 4 books! Ughhhhhh. Not fair.